Intentions 3: Every Intention
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Nothing ever turns out the way you hope, even when you have every intention of doing the right thing. No-one knows this better than the Holmes family as they all deal with the repercussions of James Moriarty's game.
1. Better Places

**Intentions 3: Every Intention**

**Nothing ever turns out the way you hope, even when you have every intention of doing the right thing. No-one knows this better than the Holmes family.**

* * *

**Chapter One: Better Places**

**September 2013**

The view was astounding.

Stopping dead and forgetting about the effort it had taken to walk up to the top of the rocky hill in the sweltering heat, John stared in awe.

"Not what you expected?" a wry voice asked.

"Not even close," John said honestly.

When he'd agreed to this he'd pictured sand. It sounded stupid now; an entire country just made of sand and houses made from some faded, chipped white stone. In John's defence, that was all they really ever showed on television when the news did a report from Afghanistan.

But this…

They were stood at the edge of Band-e Amir park and John was pretty sure he had never seen water such a deep and vivid blue before. It was as if someone had coloured the lakes in with a felt-tip or poured a liquid sapphire.

Surrounding the lakes were deep luscious greens of trees and bushes.

It was hard to believe such colours existed in nature.

"They never show this," John murmured.

"They never show a lot of things," was the bitter reply. "Come on, we only have so long here before we need to return to Kabul and I don't want to waste it with you gawping."

Hefting the rucksack on one shoulder, John gave the view one last longing gaze.

"And put those fucking straps on both shoulders. Don't be a moron, John."

Rolling his eyes, John swung the left strap around and wriggled into it properly. "Did you seriously just bring me out here to see the sights?" he asked curiously.

"Need to meet someone," Bastian replied. "He won't come into the city so I have to pay pilgrim and go to him. Still," he said glancing around. "There are worse places I suppose."

Yeah, John thought looking up at the clear blue sky. There were far worse places.

* * *

**London: January 2010**

John nearly walked into Sherlock's coat as the man did an abrupt turn at the front door.

"Stay," Sherlock ordered, waggling a finger at John's face.

"You said I could help," John complained, glaring. It was pissing with rain and he was already at the bloody crime scene.

His father could be an inconsiderate arsehole at times.

Sherlock flapped his hand at John which he had learned to read as 'I'll deal with you later, fourteen is still far too young' and then bounded in the building and up the stairs. Refusing to get wet, John stepped inside and shrugged at Alan who was one of the new officers working under Lestrade.

Squinting up the spiral staircase, John could see the forensics team hovering around. They stood out vividly in the dingy old house; their plastic-y blue contamination suits making them look like something out of a cheap science fiction film. As it was, the house was rotting, an old Victorian build that had been gutted at one point and now simply sat, stagnant and waiting.

It looked like the sort of house that would attract a murderer, John thought as he hunched his shoulders and glanced back out into the rain. The police lines were up and a small crowd were approaching, the flashing lights of the police cars occasionally illuminating the craning necks and eager glances.

"You in or out?" Sally asked as she moved to go past him and into the street.

John shrugged. "Waiting for orders on high," he said with a grin.

Sally glanced up at where Sherlock had gone and, presumably, where the body was. "Poisoning," she said with a shrug. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

It sucked that his dad still made rules about the types of death scenes John was allowed to see.

With a nod, John stepped further in, daring to start climbing the stairs.

"John," came the bellow.

Good job he'd already started up the stairs!

"…consider letting him do this?" Anderson was complaining as John reached the right level.

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock huffed from where he lay on the floor, studying the ring of the woman who-

Christ, that was a vivid shade of pink!

Wincing, John shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at Anderson. If there was one thing he had been trained to do well on a crime scene, it was that.

"He's not even wearing a suit," Anderson added as he took in John's appearance.

"He isn't a moron," Sherlock muttered. "Come here," he said, reaching out a hand to John.

A little unsure, John wandered over, peering close.

"See this?" Sherlock asked as he slid the wedding ring off the woman's finger. "What does this tell you about the state of her marriage?"

John reached for it and studied it. "Uh…" he narrowed his gaze at the hand it had come from. "Easy to slide off so…hasn't put on any weight since she married or removes it often?"

Sherlock nodded. "Which is more likely?"

"Oh for God's sake," Anderson huffed. "This is a crime scene, not a classroom."

Sherlock waved him away, as if he were an irritating fly.

It always amused John that Lestrade never said a word when Sherlock did this; John had a sneaky suspicion that the man was picking up tips.

"Um-"

"Look at her clothes," Sherlock encouraged.

Right. "She…matches," John murmured after a glance at his father. Sherlock nodded patiently. "So…she puts a lot of stock in appearance. More likely that she removes the ring often. And…she knows all about the importance of clothes so…she wants to look single?"

Sherlock nodded. "Anything else?"

John looked back at the ring again. "It's dirty," he offered, thinking of his grandmother's pristine looking rings. "And if she likes things to look nice and she wants to be proud then…the she would clean it so…another sign that she doesn't like her wedding ring?"

"Which suggests what about the marriage?"

"Unhappy," John decided. "And she wants people to know that."

Sherlock winced a little. "Perhaps. Conjecture and an unnecessary divergence," he added with a slight sniff. "Look at the inside," he added, reaching out and turning the ring slightly in John's hands. "See how polished it is?"

John nodded.

"That's a sign that she takes it off a lot – it gets polished by her skin as she pulls it on and off."

Huh. John studied that and tried to commit that lesson to memory.

Sherlock pulled him back a little. "And her hair?"

It was a mess. Even John could tell that. "She hasn't done it up so…knew there was no point? Bad weather or thought she'd get a chance to stop somewhere?"

He remembered that one from a case three months ago. It was still a little baffling to accept that some women spent almost half an hour on their hair, sometimes more.

Seemed like a waste of time to John. There were way more fun things to be done.

Like Call of Duty or Fifa.

"What's the problem with the weather theory?" Sherlock asked.

John looked outside. "It only just started raining," he said with a sigh. "Okay so-"

Sherlock shook his head. "Have conviction," he said, standing up as he tapped away at his phone. "Of course it was bad weather; she'd been in a gale force storm – she didn't use an umbrella, her coat is still saturated and her collar was turned up. We didn't have a storm like that so where did?"

John stared up blankly and slid his gaze to Lestrade who rolled his eyes. "You aren't fucking omniscient," Lestrade muttered as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I have google," Sherlock deadpanned. "There. Wales," he said, flashing the phone at John.

"That's cheating," John complained.

"You think everything is cheating," Sherlock muttered. "Why, I have no idea. You were hardly raised with high moral standards."

"Just lucked out," John muttered as he sat back properly and rested his chin on his knees. The woman's face was turned away from him but he frowned at the mark she had scratched into the floorboards. "What does RACHE mean?"

"It's German for revenge-" Anderson began to announce before Sherlock absently slammed the door shut in his face, still tapping away at the phone.

"You have a better idea?" Lestrade asked as he stared at the door.

"Logical explanation would be the name 'Rachel'. The victim wanted us to find her or…" Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Where's her suitcase?" he asked.

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked. "I haven't…there isn't a suitcase."

Sherlock stopped dead, his head shooting up like a meerkat on that annoying advert.

"No suitcase?" Sherlock asked sounding almost breathless with anticipation.

John watched him, unsure whether that was a good or bad thing.

* * *

It turned out to be a bad thing.

"I'm not getting in there," John said, planting his feet solidly on the ground as Sherlock peered into the industrial bin.

"You're smaller; you can root around better," Sherlock argued.

"Watch my lips," John emphasised. "I am not getting in that bin. I am not going to school on Monday still smelling like bin juice."

"Then I would suggest you have a shower at some point over the weekend," Sherlock snapped.

"It's not my case," John argued.

Sherlock stared at him, long and hard for at least a minute.

Then, miraculously, relented.

"Words cannot express how disappointed I am in you," Sherlock muttered as he hoisted himself up. "I am your father and I ask you to do this one thing-"

Unconcerned, John leaned against the wall, careful to avoid the rain using the overhanging roof from the building. "You used that on Wednesday when you made me get milk."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious. "What a waste of parental disappointment," he sighed.

"That's what I thought," John said. "But then I figured, why argue? Your own fault if you don't use the parent card well."

"Hm," Sherlock said, wincing as he lowered himself down. "What if I implied I was sick in some way?"

"You're in now," John said, peering and wondering if he could get a good picture. "See the case?"

"It was dumped three hours ago. Of course I can see the case," Sherlock huffed. Seconds later a bright pink suitcase was hefted over the edge of the bin.

John made the mistake of darting out into the rain to have a look at it, curious as to what might be inside-

Sherlock jumped down from the bin and caught him shoving his hand across John's face to smear bin juice.

Horrified, John pulled back. "Dad," he whined.

"Simply sharing a valuable life lesson," Sherlock replied with badly disguised amusement. "It's foul, isn't it?"

John wiped what he could off his cheek and tried to aim his hands back at Sherlock.

* * *

**September 2013 – Band-e Amir, Afghanistan**

Band-e Haibat was, according to Bastian, the largest lake in the park. It was easy to believe, John thought as he followed Bastian down the hill and towards the Bazaar.

It was a relief to see people again. There was something beautiful and peaceful about how easy it was to isolate yourself here but John always had found people to be the most fascinating thing when he travelled.

Travelling…sure, that was what he was doing he thought as he looked around.

To the side he could see a group of soldiers. They were at the edge of the lake, taking pictures and chatting to some of the locals.

"Do they come out here often?" John asked curiously.

"The Taliban crawl around these parts," Bastian said as they weaved into the crowd. "They know that this attracts tourists, visitors. Security here needs help sometimes."

"When you said that your contact wouldn't come into the city-"

"He's not a fucking hermit, John," Bastian muttered. "Travelling can be dangerous, that's all."

They were doing it, John thought as he hefted his rucksack. But then Bastian could shoot like some sort of super soldier and seemed to know anyone worth knowing.

An English accent made John glance back over at the soldiers. It had been an age since he'd heard one other than his own and usually he tried to blur that into an American twang as much as possible. Nothing too over the top but enough to back up the lie he'd been telling for...

Christ, he thought with a surprised sigh. Had it really been that long?

"Best brew I've had in years," a red headed soldier boasted with a grin as he toasted the woman that had handed him the tea.

The soldier looked a few years older than him. A northerner. Impossible for John to tell whether he'd ever been in London, whether the solider had heard of the fake-

He cut the thought off and looked away.

No-one seemed to remember anymore. Sherlock Holmes was a mere blip in the media; a name that made headlines for almost six months in total and then interest turned to something else soon after he had-

For a moment all John could see was the figure on the roof, Lestrade screaming out John's name as he tried to pull him back.

There had been blood on the pavement. It had been bitterly cold and there had been blood on the pavement.

Even after two and a half years the memory of that still ached. Still could drive him from sleep, screaming out for-

"John?"

Bastian had turned, shading his eyes with some concern as he stared at John.

"Coming," John said with a last look at the soldier.

It hardly mattered now, did it?

Shouldering his bag, John followed Bastian, ducking his head as he walked by the soldiers.

He didn't want to remember.

And, more than that, he didn't want to be found.

Especially by his fucking Uncle.

* * *

Next Chapter: Breaking News


	2. Breaking News

Breaking News

**September 2013 - London**

Rain drizzled down the window as Mycroft stared out through it. The world beyond blurred. Not that there was much to see, he thought. At this time of evening the commuters had made their way home and only the truly dedicated would be out for Wednesday night drinks. Certainly there would be no curious explorers wandering past his door.

One year.

A year and two months actually, his brain corrected.

In his hand his phone was an uncomfortable weight as he pressed in the number memorised in his head.

And maybe, slim though the chances were, maybe, this time Sherlock would respond.

* * *

**January 2010 - London**

"Is there a reason why you both smell like a toilet?" Mycroft asked as his nephew and brother bounded up the stairs and onto the landing.

"Dad smeared bin juice on me," John huffed as he continued to race to the bathroom. Moments later, Mycroft heard the door slam shut.

"Do I want to know?" Mycroft asked, looking at his brother as he hefted in a suitcase in a rather alarming shade of pink.

"Successful date?" Sherlock asked stripping off his gloves and childishly throwing them in Mycroft's general direction.

"Somewhat," Mycroft allowed, shifting awkwardly.

"Are you here to tell John?"

It was embarrassing that Mycroft could walk into a world delegation with ease and yet the idea of telling John that he had been dating one of his teachers for four months was…

Not so easy.

"Bridget has made comments that would suggest-"

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and folded his arms; all with a petulant expression of annoyance on his face.

Mycroft tapped his finger on the arm of the chair. "I simply wish to limit any awkwardness John may feel. Especially should things not work out."

"If they do not work out then you never see her again and she teaches John once a week. And he leaves school in eighteen months. I would be more concerned with how awkward things will be if you continue not to tell him and things do work out."

If they did work out?

It seemed very unlikely.

"It is my decision, Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

His brother groaned. "Then stop coming here and boring me with your querulous lamentations."

"His what?" John asked, appearing once again and looking as if he'd dipped his head underneath the tap at some point.

Without even looking at John, Sherlock picked up a huge leather bound dictionary that their father had bought John the previous Christmas.

"Yeah, I don't care that much," John muttered, darting away from the book. "Why are you here?" he asked puzzled as he turned to Mycroft.

Behind him, Sherlock smirked.

"I…how was the crime scene?" Mycroft asked.

John shrugged. "Nothing gross," he said, trying to sound as if the entire event was merely an everyday occurrence. Mycroft had no doubt that one day it wouldn't be but John still was kept on a rather short leash with these things. "And Sherlock tried to put me in a bin," he added with a glare.

Mycroft glanced at his brother.

"Two years ago he would have done it," Sherlock muttered. "Teenagers have an annoying attachment to the word 'no'."

So he'd been told.

Glancing down at the suitcase, Mycroft held out an arm to his nephew. "Would you like to make an escape before he tries to get you to wade through a sewer?"

John's shoulders sunk. "But it's a weekend," he whined as he cast a beseeching look at Sherlock.

Mycroft watched his brother glance at the suitcase thoughtfully, apparently weighing everything up. "You should go with Mycroft," Sherlock said after a pause. "Besides, he has news to share with you."

His brother truly was being puerile tonight.

* * *

In the car, John shifted to the window and glared out at the passing streets.

"He is trying to keep you safe," Mycroft murmured gently.

"I'm almost fifteen," John muttered.

Exactly.

"While I do have your attention," Mycroft started to say hesitantly.

His nephew glanced over in surprise. "I thought Sherlock was just saying that so I would go with you," John said, shifting around a little.

"I…" Mycroft cleared his throat and tried again. "I thought you should know that I'm…having extended dinner meetings."

The baffled look did not help matters. "Extended dinner meetings?" John asked doubtfully. "Is that…" is nose wrinkled. "Wait…are you trying to tell me that you're…" John looked faintly ill at the idea. "Are you dating?"

Mycroft hesitated again.

"Aw," John slumped back against the chair. "You don't date. You…topple governments-"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, pained.

"-and you spend most of your life at work or spying on Dad-"

He was going to kill Sherlock.

"- or Grandma and Grandpa. And you read books that are written in their original language-"

Mycroft dropped his hand and blinked at his nephew. "I fail to see how that affects my dating ability."

"No-one dates people who read," John explained, as if Mycroft was the idiot.

Teenagers were terrifying creatures.

"They do when they pass the age of twenty five," Mycroft said, his tone a little clipped. It must have startled John because the boy softened slightly, a slightly guilty look pulling at his features.

"You've never dated," John said after a moment. "Neither you or Dad. Have you?"

"No," Mycroft agreed, speaking for himself only. He had a slight suspicion that Sherlock had taken a few tumbles and one night stands over the years but his brother was never one to be interested by a relationship. "This is…new," he said shifting.

John eyed him up. "I guess it must be serious then?" he said.

"Yes," Mycroft admitted. "Well…we have been seeing each other socially for a while and dating for a number of months."

John blinked in surprise. "So are you going to get married?"

Married?

No.

Marriage came with all kinds of things like sharing and compromise and the need for honesty.

And then the expectation of children…

"No," Mycroft said firmly. "Just…we shall see how it develops."

John nodded slowly. "So will I meet…" he seemed to hesitate. "Her?"

There it was. Drawing in a deep breath, Mycroft braced himself. "You have," he said carefully.

John's nose wrinkled again. "Who? It's not Anthea; she's addicted to her phone and she would have told me. Who the hell else do I know that you-"

Horror suddenly dawned.

"You are not dating my teacher," John yelped.

Mycroft shifted. "Is that a question or an instruction?" he asked.

"That's…it's…" John leaned over and buried his head in his knees. "You can't date my teacher. What if you annoy her by not making a date and she fails me?"

"Ah, yes. She'd risk professional suicide by failing you just because I annoyed her," Mycroft sighed, sitting back.

"She might if she meets Dad socially," John protested, looking up.

Yes, well…"That's a risk you would take whether I was dating her or not."

John glared and threw himself back again, his face screwed up as he clearly thought it all through, likely picking up on signs he'd ignored for the past few months.

"I know you are fond of her-"

"I'm not," John muttered, though it seemed more of an automatic response than anything else. "Wait, why won't you marry her?" he demanded. "She's clever, she reads, she tries to get me to read boring books all the time-"

When would this phase pass?

"and you both love the rules-"

"I'm sorry, are you against me dating or against the fact I do not wish to commit to her. I'm losing track."

John stuttered to a halt and he folded his arms, frowning as he glared.

"Well…if you're going to marry someone," he said eventually, "I suppose there are worse people."

"Your devotion is touching," Mycroft sighed. "What happens between us will not be affected by you nor will you be affected by it. I simply wanted you to know to avoid any…uncomfortable situations."

John let out a long breath. "Do Grandma and Grandpa know?" he asked.

"Do I look like a moron?" Mycroft snapped. "My mother would fuss and start picking out china patterns within minutes."

John sniggered.

Over the years, they had all eventually learned to give John space when he was assimilating news. Mycroft sat with his laptop as they drove through the streets on London, allowing John time to think everything through.

"Why don't you want to get married?" John asked, his tone genuinely curious.

"It involves certain sacrifices. I am not entirely sure I would feel comfortable with that," Mycroft replied honestly, not looking up.

"I always figured you would."

Surprised, Mycroft glanced over the screen and was even more startled to see nothing but honest interest in John's face. "You did?"

A nod. "I just…I figured you'd retire first and then find a wife a bit younger than you-"

Mycroft blinked at the idea.

"-but yeah. And that I'd have one or two cousins. Better mannered but no-where near as fun as me," John added with a grin.

"You have cousins," Mycroft muttered, looking back down and not at all sure of what to make of the conversation.

"They don't have better manners than me," John said with an unconcerned shrug. Especially given that the one and only time he'd met three out of his four cousins he'd ended up in a shouting match with them. The only one John seemed to stand was Harriet Watson who, in Mycroft's opinion, was dangerously like her father.

"You will not get any cousins from me, John. I can guarantee you that," Mycroft said firmly as he looked back down at his laptop. "And, as such, I am not entirely sure how far my relationship with Ms Llewly will go."

John was silent and Mycroft didn't dare look up again.

"You can use her first name," John said quietly, apparently agreeing to drop the conversation topic. "We can see it when we email her," he added.

"Bridget," Mycroft corrected himself with a sigh. "Though I am fond of her," he added feeling uncomfortable.

John mercifully, said nothing.

* * *

**September 2014 - London**

He hadn't quite realised how dark it was until the light was switched on abruptly and he winced from it, the world beyond his window hidden by the reflection of the room.

"You should sleep," Bridget said firmly. "You were up at four this morning."

"Can't," Mycroft said simply, narrowing his gaze at his own image. Behind him, he could see Bridget; her hair tousled and the dressing down wrapped around her firmly.

"Won't," came the almost sharp correction.

Mycroft said nothing.

What was the point really?

"There's nothing to be done tonight," Bridget said softly as she walked over to him. "Same as every other night, Mycroft. He'll come back when he's ready to."

"He's eighteen years old," Mycroft said as he turned slowly. "At eighteen his father was trying to drug himself into an early grave."

"John is not Sherlock," Bridget said firmly, reaching for his tie and starting to undo it.

"It's been too long," Mycroft sighed. "I should have found him by now-"

"And what?" Bridget asked as she pulled the tie away and folded it neatly upon the table. "As you say, Mycroft, he's eighteen. You can't simply lock him away until he sees sense. He has to choose to come back."

"And if he's in danger?"

Bridget sighed. "He knows where we are, Mycroft. He knows the minute he steps foot in the UK that you would be watching over him. He knows our numbers, emails. He even still has that blog-"

Mycroft winced.

Bridget sighed and stroked his cheek. "Darling," she said softly. "Believe that if he really needed it, John would ask for help. He may not ask for contact but he would ask for help, if not from you, then from me or your parents. The Detective Inspector, Molly, even his other Uncle. John is simply angry with the world at the moment and the more you push trying to find him the further he will run."

Reaching out, Mycroft cupped her face. "I do not know what I would do without you," he murmured gently.

Bridget smiled. "Yes you do," she said stepping back. "You'd stare out the window all night long."

Mycroft sighed.

"And you're going to do it anyway," Bridget decided.

"It should be his first day at university," Mycroft said softly.

Bridget looked away and stroked his tie where it lay on the table.

Then she walked over and stood next to him, wrapping her arm around his back.

"He should be there," she whispered in agreement as Mycroft turned the light off.

He should.

John should be home, Sherlock should be home and they should all be planning ways to avoid the latest party his mother wanted them all to attend. Mycroft closed his eyes as the familiar ache touched upon him again.

Sherlock needed to know.

As frustrating as it was that his brother refused to answer any of his messages, Mycroft had no idea how to tell him that John was missing.

That John wasn't even in the country.

That John probably wouldn't come back unless he was dragged, kicking and screaming.

That Mycroft had failed. Completely. Failed to protect John, to protect Sherlock. To keep track of both of them as they ran as far from London as they could; Sherlock towards danger and John away from Mycroft.

It often took an entire night to catalogue his mistakes with them both.

Bridget reached and squeezed his hand reassuringly and Mycroft opened his eyes once more. And for hours they stood, watching the world outside and the rain fall upon it.


	3. Gambling

**Nakskov, Denmark 16****th**** September 2013**

If Moriarty could see him now he would laugh himself to death.

Sherlock tapped the edge of a photograph on the table thoughtfully before tossing it across the paper-strewn surface and burying his head in his hands.

So close.

And yet…

They'd scattered to the wind. Moriarty's network. As soon as they realised they were being hunted and as soon as the big names were arrested or started to disappear the rest simply collapsed away.

The sniper with them.

Evidently there was only so much hold a dead man could have over criminals.

But the snipers…they had been trusted. The three others that had aimed guns that day had been men for hire, there to prove a dramatic point. In truth, all Moriarty needed was one who was committed and rumour was that his pet sniper had been very committed.

One man. One single man stood between Sherlock and his son.

It was infuriating.

His phone went and, grateful for something else to concentrate on, Sherlock reached for the damned thing.

Mycroft.

Again.

_Berlin. Museum. J age. Lunch_

John's age.

The eighteenth.

Somehow, some way, Sherlock had become the father of an eighteen year old.

The thought was terrifying. Not least of all because the last time he had seen his son, the boy had been a devastated sixteen year old sedated in Mycroft's bed.

_No_

Sherlock pushed the phone away after he had finished texting, as if that could push the issue away as well.

No. They did not need to talk. Sherlock did not want to hear how well John was doing with his studies or how badly John was doing with his therapy. The mere thought of his son carrying on life without him was a physical ache like no other. Sherlock did not want to sit and hear how close Mycroft and John had become and seethe with envy nor did he want to hear the opposite and be wracked with guilt.

The phone beeped.

_It's important_.

His brother had gained everything and Sherlock had lost.

_No_

It seemed as if that was the end of it.

Then:

_Please. You know I wouldn't repeatedly contact you unless it was necessary._

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Damn him.

The man knew what was at stake.

* * *

**London January 2010**

"The gun," Sherlock said calmly as he sat opposite the cabbie.

"Are you sure?"

It had been disappointing in the end. There was something about the case; the modus operandi that was beautiful and elegant but the practicalities?

A gun?

As John would say, it was cheating.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said with a smirk. "The gun."

He could see it in Hope's eyes. The amused defeated smirk of a man who had nothing to live for anyway.

He pulled the trigger and the lighter flicked on, an unsteady flame bursting out the top to blaze about the same length as the space in between the knuckles on Sherlock's smallest finger.

Still, if people were that stupid that they didn't know the difference between a novelty item and a weapon then perhaps Hope was a form of natural selection.

"Well, that has been fascinating," Sherlock said, standing up. "I'm sure the police will be delighted to talk to you-"

"Out of curiosity," Hope said as Sherlock stood. "Which one would you have picked?"

Sherlock blinked down at Hope, then back at the pills.

A game. A test to see whether Sherlock could deduce from one single move. It was a delicious idea; tempting certainly.

Sherlock picked up the container closest to Hope.

"Ah…" Hope cackled. "Interesting."

Sherlock ignored him, studying the pill. There were no obvious signs that he could see that would indicate whether he had the placebo or the poison. Taking it out, Sherlock plucked the pill up to the light.

There was certainly something inside. But it could be poison or it could be lemon sherbet for all Sherlock knew.

"You're bored," Hope sneered. "The great Sherlock Holmes, so tied down by life, by the stupidity around him. You'd do anything to escape that, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock tilted his head.

"Play the game. Prove you're right."

Sherlock looked down at the man and stared at the triumphant gaze.

And, with great amusement, placed the pill back in its container.

Hope's face fell.

"If nothing else," Sherlock said seriously. "Take this as a sign that psychology is not your forte." He did the container up and shook it with a smile.

"You're bored," Hope said, sounding stunned.

"And I have a fourteen year old son."

Hope stared, stunned.

"You were willing to kill for yours? I am willing to endure some boredom for mine. Believe me, I know which is the greater sacrifice." Sherlock sniffed as he pocketed the pill. "And, for the record, I am hoping this has the poison. I certainly don't want you shoving that in your mouth and escaping questioning."

Hope closed his eyes.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. Lestrade should be another few minutes at least. Sighing at the man's poor timing, Sherlock sat back down.

Hope, to his credit, didn't bother running for the door. Instead he stared at Sherlock as if he'd never seen him before.

"You have a son?" Hope asked sounding bewildered by the idea. "I didn't see him-"

"I was tracking a serial killer," Sherlock muttered. "How irresponsible do you think I am?"

And John would have slowed him down.

He couldn't wait until John was older.

Hope still looked shell-shocked.

This was going to be a long nine and a half minutes.

* * *

It wasn't too late when Sherlock returned to Mycroft's house, let himself in and wandered up to the room John used when he stayed with his uncle.

"That was quick," John muttered as he looked up over the laptop.

"He wasn't as clever as he thought he was," Sherlock replied sitting on the edge of the bed. "Fake gun, two pills…he isn't speaking at the moment."

"But you know how he did it?" John asked, yawning.

"He had…" Sherlock hesitated as he took in the sight of the tired teenager. "There are a few loose ends. I will deal with them tomorrow.

"Mm," John said, looking back at the screen. "You mean you'll try to work them out so you can piss Lestrade off when doing the official statement."

That too.

Moving up the bed so that he could see John's laptop screen, Sherlock sat with his back against the wall and peered at the blog page.

"Your assignment?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "I can't think of a title," he murmured.

"Why does it need one at all?" Sherlock muttered, watching the cursor blink at John, waiting and ready to go.

"I dunno," John said, sounding a little unsure.

The tone surprised Sherlock enough that he glanced back to see John staring at the screen and chewing his lip thoughtfully.

It had been a while since he'd seen his son look nervous. Truly nervous. And, for once, the look wasn't directed at him. It made Sherlock smile, oddly nostalgic for when John had been smaller, more eager and accepting of reassurance.

"You are tired," Sherlock declared, sneaking a quick brush of John's hair and earning the obligatory teenage glare for his trouble.

"I'm thick," John whined, banging his head back as if to ward off another parental attempt at comfort.

"I don't raise thick children," Sherlock muttered as he stood up.

"Didn't say children, I said me. One child," John corrected. "Although, I suppose if things go well with Ms Llewly, Mycroft might let you share his kid."

Share?

"I do not share you," Sherlock snapped, turning around. "You are my child. No-one else's."

John looked up, apparently startled at the sudden change in atmosphere. "I was kidding," he said after a moment. "Though, don't forget mum."

If only he could, Sherlock thought as he watched his son. "Mycroft is not your parent," he said firmly, not entirely sure what else to say.

"I know," John said not looking up, the hunch in his shoulders indicating just how deeply uncomfortable with the conversation he was.

"He is your Uncle," Sherlock added, part of him knowing it didn't need to be said, that just by saying these things he was making more of a fuss than was needed. "He will never be anything more."

"Dad."

The tone made Sherlock meet John's eyes and for a moment he started down at his son, not entirely sure what emotion he was seeing.

"I know," John said after a moment.

Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips shut.

* * *

**Berlin, Germany 18****th**** September 2013**

They'd come to the museum before. The Egyptian museum had been one of those places that had stuck in their mind. The café opposite, San Marino, had seats outside in the warm September sun that faced the grand building.

"Smoking?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the sky, refusing to look at his brother. "I thought this could be a day of unnecessary risk."

The chair scraped against the pavement as Mycroft sat down.

Sherlock frowned as no rebuke was heard, as no sigh echoed out. Suspicious, he tipped his head down to study his brother.

Tired.

Strange that was the first thought that hit him. There were other more noticeable changes; his wedding ring, the slight hints of grey in his hair now. The fact Mycroft was a little thinner than he had been in years.

But it was the tiredness that screamed out to Sherlock. It was clear in Mycroft's eyes, in the way he had done his tie, in the way he sat. And it wasn't work related…

"Is fatherhood taking its toll?" Sherlock spat at him.

Mycroft's gaze skittered away, his mouth firming into a thin line, and Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice.

"What happened?"

Mycroft stared at the table for the longest time and then slowly looked up, studying Sherlock in a way that Sherlock rarely experienced. It wasn't a look that tracked the surface, that deduced his day and looked for an opportunity to get one up on Sherlock.

This was…looking for something. Worrying, it seemed as if Mycroft was looking for…

Strength.

"John…" Mycroft pushed the cutlery to be perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. "He ran away."

A slither of relief flooded through.

Mycroft wasn't any better at parenting John that Sherlock had been.

"Are you here to ask for advice?"

"He hasn't come back and he hasn't contacted me."

John was eighteen; did Mycroft think he was still an eleven year old child that would hide in the park and wait to be found?

Still…there were far too many risks to have John out unprotected for long. Space might be what his son wanted (and a large part of Sherlock could fully understand that John wanted space from Mycroft) but there needed to be some protection, some form of safety for John.

The idea that no-one was watching over John suddenly sunk in and Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable with the strange tightness in his chest. "How long?" he asked, barely recognising his own voice.

Mycroft still wouldn't look at him.

"How long-"

"I have been trying to tell you," Mycroft snapped. "For months now I have been-"

"Months?" Sherlock snarled. "Months?"

Mycroft sat back, anger emblazoned in his eyes and jaw tight. "Not months, Sherlock. A year."

No.

Nothing else managed to make its way through Sherlock's brain. All he could focus on was…

No.

"What…What did you do?"

Mycroft's jaw clenched and he pressed his lips together to form a tight white line as fixed as a scar. It didn't matter, Sherlock's brain was already racing ahead.

"He's not in the country then," Sherlock decided, sitting back and letting his thoughts whirl. "He's shocking at languages…America? As I recall he was taught to do a passable accent-"

Mycroft shook his head. "He went there first," he said staring into the restaurant. "By the time I managed to catch up, John…" Mycroft shook his head. "Either he isn't there or has successfully managed to assimilate himself.

"By the time you…" Sherlock tried to ignore the impulse to stand and kick something. "How long did it take you to-"

"I was distracted," Mycroft hissed.

"Distracted?" Sherlock breathed furiously. "Distracted?"

Mycroft's gaze suddenly snapped to Sherlock's, meeting his glare with a defiant one on of his own. Strange, really, to see that emotion on Mycroft's face.

"I had other family matters to attend to," Mycroft said tightly. "Matters that did not mean John was less important but simply meant that I missed certain signs and wasn't thinking straight when he first left."

Sherlock stared at him.

Then pushed back, away from the table and started to storm down the street.

If he punched Mycroft the fight would draw attention. Now more than ever he needed to keep himself quiet, a whispered shadow, a ghost. If Moriarty's people had concrete evidence that he was alive…

"I will not have you walk away from this," Mycroft's voice called as his footsteps echoed behind Sherlock.

"You were distracted?" Sherlock hissed whirling around. "Family matters? I gave him to you. I gave you my son and you were distracted by-

"My daughter."

Sherlock paused and blinked.

What?

"You…" he looked at the cuff of Mycroft's suit and then for any other possible markers.

Nothing.

"Do you think I am going to broadcast it?" Mycroft asked, looking around as he adjusted his stance. "Or that I brought her with me?"

No.

Mycroft had a child.

A baby.

A deep, aching jealousy suddenly hit. Blinding in its force and decimating in its power.

Mycroft had a child. Could rock his child to sleep, could see it at night and know it was safe. He could watch his child grow, safe and happy.

He would never have to live with the fact he had missed years. That he had failed to protect his child. Mycroft would never know the agony of walking away not just once, but twice.

Of knowing his child had been hurt and he was powerless to make it better.

"Then go home to her," Sherlock snarled. "Go back. I do not need you to-"

"This is John we are talking about," Mycroft snapped. "I am not going to walk away-"

"Yet you let him walk away," Sherlock yelled. "I gave you the one thing-"

"I know."

Sherlock looked away, not wanting to see his brother's expression.

"I will deal with it," Sherlock said after a moment as he studied the wall. "You will simply draw more attention to him. Go home."

"You want to find him while pretending to be dead?" Mycroft asked wryly. "I think you may be slightly overestimating your skills."

"Better that than over estimating yours," Sherlock snapped as he turned around again. "Go home. You are no longer required."

* * *

Next Chapter: Not alone


	4. Not alone

Not alone

Chapter Summary: Sherlock tries to work out where John would go.

* * *

Where would John go?

Sherlock sat on the train, head almost touching the window as he stared out at the rolling landscape.

John would have been seventeen when he'd left.

He'd walked out of his A-levels. On his grandparents and Mycroft-

Mycroft.

The name made Sherlock grind his teeth slightly. What had his brother done to John to make him leave? John wasn't the type of child to get upset that there was a baby in the house. If anything, Sherlock would have been sure that would have ensured John stayed.

A baby. He had a niece.

And he had no idea how old she was, what Mycroft had meant by 'distraction'. Had she been sick? Was it labour that had distracted Mycroft and made him moronically blind to whatever it was that was happening with John?

Had the pregnancy been planned? Had Mycroft finally gotten over his idiotic notion that he couldn't be trusted with a child? Had-

Sherlock pushed the thoughts away.

John.

John had to be the priority. And perhaps Sherlock should have asked his brother a few more questions before starting down this path but it was done now.

He knew his son better than anyone.

He'd had to.

* * *

**London 2010**

"Dead?"

Lestrade nodded looking deeply unhappy. "This morning. Went to wake him up and…" he shook his head. "Pills."

"He had no pills on him when he went in-"

"You'd be amazed the places prisoners use to hide-"

"He had no pills on him," Sherlock roared. "Do you not think I would know? Me? That man had no means of escape-"

"Escape?" Lestrade snapped with a glare.

Sherlock waved him off. "You know what I mean," he huffed. "He sincerely thought that he would live out his days here."

Lestrade stared at him for a look moment. "Only staff went near him," he said keeping his gaze steadily on Sherlock.

"I hardly think it will be news to you that prison staff can be bribed." Sherlock looked around, thinking of another room years ago with Anna as they had talked.

"Fucking hell," Lestrade breathed, "I hate it when…." He looked around uncomfortably. "We won't be able to prove it," he said softly.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "I might but you won't."

Lestrade looked as if he would be quite happy throttling Sherlock.

* * *

Three hours later, Sherlock left feeling somewhat smug that he'd been able to find the imbecile responsible for giving Hope the pills. The woman had burst into tears the moment he'd shown her the pills he'd discovered.

She would be placed under watchful protection now but Sherlock doubted that she knew enough for whoever was behind all of this to even bother with her.

It was fascinating though, the idea that there was someone behind the crime. Someone pulling the strings and creating the puzzles.

An opponent.

"You don't need to look so fucking pleased," Lestrade hissed at Sherlock as they walked.

"I solved your leak, Inspector. One would think you should look more pleased."

"That woman's life is-"

"Oh, she made the choice," Sherlock muttered as he signed out at the desk. "Or do you take responsibility for the crimes of all the people you arrest? No wonder you try to do it so infrequently."

"You don't have to look triumphant. A bit of empathy wouldn't go amiss."

Boring.

A plain ring tone rang out. Unsaved number; potential client?

Whatever it was, the conversation would undoubtedly be far more productive than the one he was having.

Deliberately trying to be annoying, Sherlock held up a hand to Lestrade who had taken breath to start a new complaint and answered his phone. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," the person at the other end of the line fumbled as if they weren't expecting him to answer.

Moron.

"Um…is this…you are listed as Anna Watson's next of kin."

"What has she done now?" Sherlock huffed, striding forward. "Any more tales of past boyfriends?"

"I…sorry…I'm not sure what you-"

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stopped, even though it would allow Lestrade the opportunity to catch up. "Why are you phoning?"

"We'd like for you to come by as soon as possible-"

"I'm busy. And check your logs; I haven't been to see that…" Sherlock glanced heavenwards and restrained the urge to call her all the names under the sun. "Irresponsible…" he trailed off and winced. "I haven't seen her in years. I drop my son at the prison and stay at the sidelines-"

"I…that's not…" There was a wobble in the voice now and then a sigh from someone else and the noise of a phone being handed over.

"Hello, my name is Arlene Simmonds. We would very much appreciate it if you would come to the prison at your earliest convenience and-"

"It's not convenient," Sherlock snapped.

"Then come anyway," she insisted, a hint of iron in her voice.

"I am not coming," Sherlock declared. "So whatever she has done, tell me now so I may get on with my day."

There was a long pause.

It made him freeze, a sudden realisation hitting-

"I am sorry to inform you that Anna Watson died today."

Sherlock stared at the street, at the cars crawling by and the bus that stupidly pulled across a road and blocked in all the traffic.

She couldn't be dead. He had to fight with her for their son when she was released.

Dead.

Useless word-

"Mr Holmes, we would like it if you were to come in today-"

"How?" he said suddenly waking up from the stupor.

"How do you get to us?" Arlene asked in what he assumed was meant to be a gentle tone.

"You said she died," Sherlock murmured. "Not an illness; I would have known. Nor an accident-"

"There were pills," Arlene said in that same annoying voice. "It looks as if Anna may have-"

Pills.

But…

Slowly, Sherlock turned to look back at the prison he had just left.

It had to be a coincidence. Anything else…

The mysterious benefactor killing Anna because he had stopped the cabbie would be a huge over-reaction, surely? No warning, no hints? It wasn't…

That wasn't part of the game.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade watching him, a concerned look on his face as the man thankfully just waited, not asking questions or badgering him with emotional support or whatever it was called.

Anna and pills.

Anna would never have left John-

"You're wrong," Sherlock said, staring up at the brick walls. "It wasn't suicide."

Oh god.

John.

Terror suddenly swamped him. His son, fourteen years old, finally settled, finally happy and secure and now-

He would kill whoever had done this. Rip their life apart the way he was about to have to tear John's up.

Pills.

Too much of a coincidence.

What else was there? What link could-

The person Anna had used, the favour she had owed.

_An admirer._

_Benefactor._

The same person?

Why wait all this time? If it was the same person then-

"…come in and we'll discuss it?"

He didn't want to.

He wanted to take John and hide him so he would never find out. He could probably even manage it for a few months.

Except John would ask questions. Questions that Sherlock needed to know, needed to be able to give the correct answers to.

"Fine."

* * *

"I am in the middle of a… meeting," Mycroft said as the sound of glasses rang out, clinking together and interrupting the flow of conversation.

"You need to come with me," Sherlock said as he sat in the taxi.

"It is important-"

"I do not care about your date and how far your leg has managed to get over," Sherlock snarled down the phone. "You need to-"

The phone call ended.

Sherlock slammed the phone into the plastic shield that separated him from the taxi driver, almost screaming in frustration before he called his father.

"Anna died."

As opening greetings went it wasn't his best, but it got the message across. There was a long pause and then his father cleared his throat. "Where are you?"

"I'll meet you at the prison," Sherlock decided. "And if you can manage to tear Mycroft away from his beloved teacher, tell him the same."

* * *

"As we understand it, Anna was estranged from most members of her family. We have tried to contact George Watson but-"

Sherlock ignored the droning on. His parents sat side by side, holding hands and both looking pale while Mycroft (who had finally deigned to turn up) sat ramrod straight and his gaze was centred upon Arlene as she spoke.

Waste of time.

"She had a visitor," Sherlock said as he flipped through the pages he had stolen from the log book.

Arlene looked up and visibly blanched. "You shouldn't have-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, tapping at the page. "Yesterday."

After he had arrested the taxi driver.

He couldn't have caused this. It had been a game; it couldn't have led to this.

Just a game.

"Our grandson," his father said leaning forward, distracting Arlene. "Anna's son, is there…is there a way of dealing with this? You must have seen many cases over the years."

Arlene smiled sadly. "There's no magical cure, I'm sure you know. Suicide is difficult to deal with. Family members will often feel as if they missed something or as if they could have tried harder."

His father leaned back with a sigh.

"John will," his mother said, sounding nervous. "He thinks the whole world's happiness depends on him sometimes."

"We can look at therapy-"

Sherlock almost laughed. They'd just got John freed from therapy sessions and now-

Stupid.

He looked back down at the log book, at the mystery and the answers that he could seek.

When he looked back up, Mycroft was watching him steadily.

"He'll need answers," Sherlock murmured as Mycroft rose to stand next to him.

"He isn't you," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock shook his head. "I did this. The taxi cab case, the pills. This is for me-"

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "You think…this benefactor, do you-"

"Anna asked for help with her crime, and Hope asked for help with his." Sherlock put the book down. "How many…" he struggled for a word and then nearly laughed at the phrase that came to him. "How many consulting criminals are there?"

Mycroft reached for the log book. "There have been whispers," he said quietly as their parents continued to talk to the counsellor. "If this is indeed the same man…" he trailed off.

"Finish your sentences," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft said nothing as he put the log book down and, with neat precise moves, closed it up and put it away.

* * *

John was doing his homework when Sherlock entered the flat.

Pointless. John had already been excused from school for the next week.

"What's the formula for the sine rule?" John asked in between chewing on his pencil.

How was he meant to do this?

John glanced over and stiffened in worry. "Dad? What's-"

Sherlock knelt down next to his son's chair and pushed the maths homework away.

"Dad?" John sounded scared now. "Why are you-"

The words wouldn't come. How could he do it? How could he say…

"Your mother died this morning."

Mycroft.

Sherlock almost turned around to stare disbelievingly at his brother but the expression of sheer disbelief on John's face stopped him. His gaze darted up and to what Sherlock assumed was Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again.

"It's…" John stared at Sherlock, as if trying to see the lie. "No. She…" he shook his head fiercely as he sat back into the seat, away from them both. His eyes were suddenly bright and mouth pressed fiercely together as if refusing to let anything in.

Sherlock still didn't know what to say.

"She took some pills-"

Sherlock could have strangled Mycroft. John's jaw dropped open, sheer shock on his features now as the truth started to set in.

"No," John shook his head again suddenly looking terribly young. "No. She wouldn't…" He looked down at Sherlock. "She wouldn't leave me."

It was meant to be a statement but the echo of a terrified question was in the words and all Sherlock could do was shake his head.

"Would she?"

Sherlock looked down, hating how silent he had been and waiting for Mycroft to say something.

But his brother seemed to have lost the words too.

"She's not dead," John whispered. "Please don't…don't let her be dead. Please-"

Sherlock sat up and cupped his son's face. There were reassuring words, the things that he knew he was meant to say. The 'it will be all right' and 'she's in a better place now' could be used here.

But the first was a lie and the second seemed mocking and cruel.

He couldn't subject John to either.

The words died on his tongue and the only thing he could do was pull John off the chair and into his arms.

His son cried.

For hours.

And Sherlock still had no idea what to say.

* * *

**September 2013**

John thought of himself as an orphan.

A child who had heard both parents be accused of committing suicide.

In the hotel room, Sherlock lay the map out on the floor, his fingers skimming the edges of continents. Conversations from years ago rang out as he studied the world.

A child who had been let down by his family, who wanted to escape.

He'd avoid everywhere they'd talked about. He'd want to carve a new path for himself.

No-where he or Anna had mentioned then.

No-where Mycroft could find him.

Danger. John would need to feel as if he were changing something, doing something-

Sherlock let his hand trace as he ruled out countries until only a handful remained.

And then ruled them out further until he was left with his most likely two.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

* * *

**2010**

John wasn't talking.

To anyone.

Which worked well, Sherlock thought bitterly, as he had nothing to say.

Until three days later when he watched John stare at a picture; one of Anna and John pre-prison.

"It wasn't you."

John looked up, startled.

"You…your mother and I agreed on one sole thing. You are the most important thing, our greatest achievement and source of pride. It wasn't your fault."

John's jaw clenched as he looked down.

"It was me," Sherlock continued, sitting down opposite John. "The…your mother had connections. The link that put her in prison. The cabbie case last week it…the pills. I think-"

John stared at him with a blank gaze.

It didn't matter, Sherlock supposed as he stared back at his son. No matter the explanation, it wouldn't bring Anna back.

It wouldn't stop John from losing his mother.

"I had detention," John said suddenly, rubbing a thumb over the glass. "I didn't go to see her last week."

"You're our son," Sherlock muttered. "Of course you get detention."

"I can't remember what we talked about the last time I saw her," John whispered. "I can't…I don't remember."

Sherlock stroked a hand through John's greasy hair. "Because it wasn't unusual for you to see her," he said trying to keep his voice low and soft. "You had a relationship with her, John, not one bound just by duty or the occasional visit."

John leaned into him and sighed, snuggling close and Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his arms around his son.

"My mum's dead," John said, sounding as if he were testing the words out.

Sherlock tightened his grip.

"It doesn't feel real," John whispered. "It's not real."

It would do. When the shock wore off.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what would follow.


End file.
